Chapter 169577042

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Chapter NumberXIV
Chapter Title
Chapter Urlhttp://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article169577042
Full Date1891-11-21
Page Number1
Corrections0
Word Count4891
IllustratedN
Last Corrected0000-00-00
Newspaper TitleThe Bendigo Independent (Vic. : 1891 - 1918)
Trove TitleThe Devil's Own. An Australian Story
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THE DEVI L'S OWN.

A N AUSTRALIAN STORY

CHAPTER XIV. (Continued).

By Mrs. Richmond Henty. (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)

Gifts followed gifts, pleasures followed pleasures, throughput the day as it passed in pure enjoyment, the rippling, laughter and merry voices of the children adding

to rather than spoiling the,pleasure of the happy . . : Seven o’clock tells the cuckoo clock (Undo Ted’s present to the nursery), and the children are all assembled to listen to the quaint sounds, and look at the clock, I though in their; childish eagerness and | gurprisoj unlike old Winifred Price of In ! goldsby lore, as it tells them the day is [ ver for their revels, there is still a pro | juised romp with Uncle - Ted to come off i, before they 8 ay good-night to- all. The ( dinnortoble has been stretched to its ; utmost limits, and is still insufficient for I the many guests it is expected . to hold, ' mostly bachelors from neighboring stations | and a tmall’spriukling of women, “ily wife always sends-out into the highways and byways to hunt up all the : spinsters and bachelors out of pity for their forlorn condition at Christmas time,” says < v orman, (after the feast of good' things has been discussed and they arc assembled in tho drawing-room, which is a veritable bower of rosi s ; large bowls 0 { the choicest sort; filling every corner, lending enchantment to the scene in the dim dusk light),-though I don’t think they look as if. they arc much to be pitied. I think its one word for them and two for herself. \My ; wife, doesn’t; object to a swaim of admirers even .now',” continues Connie’s husband. “ Just look at her; she has trapped Father Fennelly and is trying to make him * turn JRecha bifce; but it is no go, the priest won’t be caught wifch.chaff/’ , 1 The priest is at this moment shaking his head firmly at a cup of tea Mrs, Forteecue is offering him. A jolly red faced, pleasant sort,of fellow is Father Fennelley, the Roman Catholic priest of the district ; a good specimen of bis class, full of anecdote, and always making his, anecdotes and adventures more in ter fat ing by making himself ; the/hero of them in the recital. He is fullof.fun aud fond of his glass of whisky,-like most of his cloth. Mrs. Forfescue, with many others, is- aware of hia-weaknees, and on his arrival she always mnkrs a point , of greeting him with “you’ll take a cup of tea, Fatner Fennelly,” and she invariably, gets the same polite answer, “Thawnk yc, bub I’ll take a little spurrite.” It is an old joke at Seringa and other stations where the priest is a welcome visitor, in fact it was said he bad, with his winning ways, coaxed 'much .more out ,of the Protestant community of- that, district than frotq out of his own flock. “ He is so remarkably plausible—you cannot refuse him. JEIe won’t even give you the option, but he is a gopd fellow at heart and not bigotted,” said Norman, in a cheerful voice, to his friend, Donald Macanslnnd, a neighboring squatter - (a- North of Ireland man), as they sat half, in and half out of the French windows opening to the floor of the room and. verandah'.., . “ Weel, I don’t deny his good nature, but he/has the confidence of the deil liimsel. , Did I never tell ye how he chased qnejmt of my very own boose last shearing ; ?twos as good as a play. Twos about a bet I had - with old ..Sandy BIcOluaky yo,ken. him? a rare skinflint and unco fond of the bawbees. Weel, wo were talking, of tho priest one day and his cleur little dodges of getting subscriptions out of tlie stations, ‘ Hang tho fellow,’ said McCIusky, * I’ll bet ye five puns he’ll; get five puns out of ye ursel this shearing.’ * Done,’said I, 1 I’ll tab yere bet, Sandy; money’s scarce just now, I’ll be glad of an extra few pounds.’ ’So shall Sandy ; goot day.’ Vfell, of course, I kept a good look out as the lime wont on, and the shed was full; but one morning just in the very midst of shearing who should I see, from my office window, but Father Fennelly in the yard putting his horse in the stable! ‘Let’s make a bolt for it/ says Johnson, who was with me'and knew all abpufc the bet, * for sure as fate he’ll get five pounds out of the both of os in a jiffy ; he has the devffs old talent for coaxing. Weel, we watched Father /Fennelly into -the house, and then didn’t we make a run for it—straight across, the home paddock, through the horse, pad dock, as if the very deil was after us, down to tho shed, try ing to look cool and dignified as we nodded and spoke a few Words to the shearers.” “Here’s Father JFonnelly, coming this way to collect money for his chapel; get jour money, ready, boys,” said Barnes/ one of the shearers, to. the,, men, “The devil he is,” said Johnson, “ then we’re off and no mistake,” and. away we flew as if . the deil was after us/again, across the cultivation paddock, to. the wash down. “1 thought the master was here*” said Father Fennelly looking round the shed (Barnes told me all about it after). “ So he was a time agqne/’snid William Smale. ‘‘Ain’t, he pip at the house, sir,” arid Ezekiel, Drew,, a strict “ Methodee ” and hater pf prieai . . "No, no,; ,Mr8.,,McPnosland, thought he might be here,” said- .Father Fennelly peevishlg, “ I fancied I &w him. He must have gone on to tne waph,” end after getting some promises of sqbscrip tion out of my raon away he wont .as fast as his' legs wouldl carry him down to tho wash down. Wo saw Him coming. What was to bo done-—their was no, es cape-no , hiding place, Ojd Barney Maguire, jou know the old duck shooter; » double-distilled neer-db-woll, was, qp to the occasion, and proyeda friend in need;, though mony a time I’veabusedhim like a pickpocket for-his poaching pee elevitiea / ', - / . ! / “Into the topbs” (floating casks ip washers aland under the spouts when holding or turning tho sheep), wid, yc at oust,” said -he, and' away we scuttled across.tho. dam into the water,, ond without pinch ado were in the tabs, • out of reach and out of sight of- anyone, crouched down and feeling . all, feverish the welting. (i ' t^°y n^n Fr,' Bnrney,/ :aaid! the spriest, where’s the piaster !... Ho must hp some where hereabouts, for i saw him -coming this way not many minutes ago, with Dune own eyes.” . -? * “Did ye now ? Well, if that; ain’t a curious coincidence; perhaps ’(was 'bis 9! 8rr ft* The divil a bit have* I scon of bis ghost, (hough, ’tie, I. missel f (bat have ucen wanting the masteK Ibis. two. hours 40 w J? rfl * Isn’t ho up at (hie shed; be yftOt f* ?r V- ?' ' x \ r. -v “ Nevor a hit,” said. Father Fennelly, staring right and left In/w6ndorfsure X could have sworn J, saw him coming trough the 'cultivation# paddock on liis *fty here.” r . .. H v f 1 roust have beeir his sporrit suroly,”- wtd Martin Hale ; “ but if so bo. as you

should meet-.': with the master, Mr, Fennelly, would yer kindly tell him I ha’ Bommat particular' I wish- to see him about.” “Pertainiy, certainly. • I am going back to the house:. Good day, good dayV boys,” said Fennelly, and he'was off and back at the•;station almost before wo had time-to creep. out of the tubs, cramped and shivering os you may suppose,; not being experts at getting into tliem, glad to get homo- and-change our wet clothes and drink the priest’s health in some hot whisky punch. Hang the follow 1 He has the impudence of the old. boy himself, - but- we did' him - that time,. > though; he found it all out soon after from one of the shearers or washers, 1 fancy, iand now. if,ho is told we ore not to be found, he insists upon a scrutinising tour of thorough investigation, even to the tubs. At this moment Father Fennelly looks across the room and knows that the two men. in the window are talking about him*, but he only winks at them comically andcontinues bis conversation with his hostess. .. I s A dance followed coffee, though ladies i were at a premium. Sir. Roger de I Ooverley was proposed. Uncle Ted led ( off the dance wilh Mrs. Annelaye, to that pretty little dame’s immense satis faction, “kicked up his heels” in the terpsichorean style, to quote his, own ex pression ; Herbert Annelaye dancing wiih Mrs. Fortescue. “ Bless my soul, Connie, I feel like Lady Arabella Wbilamina Skcggs in that book the Yicar of Wakefield,” said Uncle Ted, .falling baok on the sofa and mopping his rosy face furiously to the amusement of all about him. “ How is that, uncle,” said Connie in nocently. “ My dear, have you never read the Vicar of Wakefield: bless mo, how your education must have been neglected; it is in that scene—- —I cannot repeat her ladyship’s words. Oh no 1 they might shook you,, so you must be patient .till you rofid the beck, then you can think of me—don’t you be shocked 1”, Punch, from an old English punch bowl, Herman Fortescue declared, had been used in the old happy times of long long ago, and when bo rejoiced in long, tailed robes, fie said, for his christening, went round to the. health of all absent ones, “ Auld Lang Syne.” with the old Scotch fashion of crossed hands, wound up the. Christmas fete, everyone wishing each other good night before the small hours of the morning drew in. The men de termined upon escorting the Annelaye’s, to limit habitation in the “ Glen-” for fear of bushrangers, and on arriving at the small domicile, Herbert Annelaye insisted on them all going in and- having a chat and a smoke, which lasted till the small hours had well set in. . , .. . “ Good-night and, God bless you, my son; may the coming year be. a bright and successfuhono for you all; but take heart, don’t work too hard. You will be well off in the, time to come. I shan’t live muoh longer, and you’ll have most of it,”, said Uncle Ted, shaking, his favorite nephew’s hand as he scuffled away into his :oom quietly. Alas for poor Norman ! in the time to come. Alas ! that there should be such curses in the air as human wolves in sheep’s clothing; people of bis own kin who would mar his very life and deprive him of his very inheritance, destroying all his old honest faith in mankind. “ In the time to come,” s.<ud old Nor man, wilh a sigh. “ I hope that; is far off,” he said to,himself. : CHAPTER XV. ' RECREATION. “Jack, lake tho black .mare, stand dear. of. her'heels, She’s not over safe, between rails, Thougli once your light weight in (be saddle she feels, Wo shan't toko the wind from your sails. Now, Harry, I think you can catch little Jim,. While I saddle old “Bobbie Burns,” I’m thoroughly- up to the old beggar's whim, Of running too close at the turns.” Ernest Hbnty. “Up, rouse ye men, ye merry merry men,” sang Herbert Annelaye in his rich clear voice, as he ascended the rising ground towards his friend’s house, feeling stonger and bettor lhan he had felt lor many a long day, and as he stood for a moment on the brow of the hill and looked back on the valley beneath hind; be thanked God that ho had been spared to enjoy such a scene as that, .It was quite early; the whole land scape tinted with the rosy cheeks of the morning sun, to . the tips of the forest trees, where some black cockatoos were screeching their loud good mornings to each other on the topmost branches, a picturesque soft blue grey mist was shrouding the whole valley, reminding him of seme of old picture of a quiet scene in the Highlands ho had seen. Every, blade and leaf is sparkling with tinkling dew drops that glitter like diamonds in tho sun; telling of F a heavy due, Early as it is tho whole atmos phere teems with life—a hum of insects— tho rich .warbling of the peep of day boys—mix with the different notes of parrots and cockatoos, as they fly over head and about, animating tho picture with the rainbow coloring of their brilliant plumage, whilst the slow sober tingle; of bullock bells falls on the oar, > telling of tho travellers who, with their drays, have camped by tbo side of the road winding along the valley near the creek, the men busy preparing their morning meal by a blazing camp tire of logs, from which a thin column of blue smoke rises, adding pioturesqaeoess to the landscape. .....Herbert Annelaye is an artist at heart, and he wishes be could only paint tho whole sceno then and there as it rises be fore him, even to his young wife, he gladly sees waving her hand to him as she stands under the wood-biped porch like some exquisite portrait framed in flowers, | “Oooee,” shouts- some oho from the | house, and Herbert kissing his hand to his true love, hurries on up the bill to-the house, where all (he world is astir, men mounting their horses, groups ohatr ting'togeiher, Whilst at the barracks and the; house people are in and out “ hurry ing up ” for breakfast or departure. “Good morning; hero you are, Anne laye.. There’s your nag, just at the gate. There’s Connie’s mare, Brown Bess; she’s gob too fat lately, the. run will do her good. There’s breakfast inside, come in.” ' 'S “ Good morning; I have had breakfast thank you,,’said Annelaye. ? , “Nonsense; I know what that was,;, a squaie inch of toast with an egg, per haps, at the most. Como along. Here Connie—Connie.” “Hero I am,” said Mrs. Fortescue, appearing on the verandah, and looking us fresh os the dawb;' '"' “ Here’s Annelaye, obstreperous ; W6n'b ! oat his breakfast. - 1 Connie, he is here to 'Have breakfast mind 1 ;: strict orders. ] : Make him cpV’ ",’ Qqmie ih;. Herbert; I havo, somothing tempting this -morning- ! fori breakfast” 'saidMrs. Forfcscde, leadihjg;.ithe;^.ftyItito’' the long dining room, wLeio-tbetcene,

was only to be compared to oTiant breakfast at some ; sporting rough arid ready country squire’s. “Gome and sit bore—no; I won’t have you near me. You will t>alt| iand I want you to eat. You haye just ten minutes if you go with Norman—you take coffee, I know, , You;have not bir come ,quite a bushmen yet; now you are in my charge, and you are to make, a, good breakfast. , I do love a/muster, everyone-looks so fresh and bright and happy, at least in the morning ; in the evening it, is a different matter alto gether. They all come, home so tired, poor things, and so dusty.” ; “ So they do in the old country after a day’s fox hunting; jolly sport,, but tir ing, and, „a:s to dust, I have often re turned . unrecognisable positively 1 up to ray nose in mud,” said Mr. Annelayol Herbert Annelaye did make' a good breakfast to please his fair hostess, and, was struggling through a very dainty pyramid of game pie when he heard a voice .behind him. “ I say, Beamish, this is jolly, down right jolly, isn’t it, and . no mistake; done .well too, you know. I.havo always had an idea that bush people were bar barians ; people you know that live from hand to mouth in a boorish way, content with a tin pot and a tin plate for their meals, and that sort of thing. What a lot of rubbish people write about things and places they know nothing about,” “ Yes, and the public is gulled and deceived with such cant,” said another voice. f Annelaye turned to see who the speakers were, but he only, saw strangers. Two men standing together at the side board, evidently taking in the whole scene. One was young, almost a boy, and delicate looking; the other older and. with a sober and thoughtful expression, both attired in light grey suits of thin material,, and both looked spick and span, even to their French kid boots, and not obviously about to join in'the little skirmish'. ’ They remained in the room only a second or so, then apparently satisfied with their survey of the breakfast room and its guests, they left together, Herbert Annelaye meeting them a few minutes after when they were having a tour of investigation amongst the horses l and horsemen that lined the fence and tilled the yard. ir ' “Now you may gOj Sir Herbert, : I ; will take good care of Vera. We are to have such a delightful picnic up at the rocks. If you can get away, do find us out., will entertain you to a veritable bush tiffon; don’t'forget, between one and two. , Norman knows the shortest cut out from whore you will be at''that time.” f>; “ Are you going by yourselves'? ' Are you not afraid of some stray cattle tak ing you by surprise and scampering over your fresco lunch1” said Annelaye. “No, we have, a splendid escort in prospect. Imagine (he son of a duke ! yes, a duke!” “By-the-by, begging your pardon for interrupting, who are those two men' in grey? strangers to me.” said Anne layo. “Grey—grey; oh! didn’t Norman tel! you thb youngest is Lord Vereker, son I .of the Duke of—of | “Grantham,” said Annelaye. : , ’ j <r Ycs. Did you know. them ,?” said Mrs,. Forlcscue. “ The poor young fellow is con sumptive. I farcy St any rate- -he is to remainTb a warm, climate till the Eng lish winter is over.; The - other is his friend or tutor, I forget which. Mr, Beamish, I’feel like ’Atlas, the world upon my shoulder,'haying to entertain: a a duke’s son, though already'I have lost half my dread, for 1 the young fellow is not nearly so formidable as {.thought duke’s sons were.” “ Nevor-be afraid "of entertaining “well bred people. They are not so difficult to manage ns your shoddy aristocracy. Let ! me see—Rudolph Vereker.” “ Is his name Rudolph ? What a beautiful name? It reminds me of some old touching Gorman legend,” said Mrs. Fortescue. “Rudolph Vereker must bo about twenty:one or twenty-two—not more— and the duke and duchess a* out the nicest people in the peerage,”, said Anne- Inye with a sigh. “Then you know them. I am so glad,” said his listener, in a joyous tone of surprise. “ Yes,” said Annelaye slowly; but it was years ago. They would never re- 1 member mo ; I am sure Rudolph Vereker would not.” “ I am sure he will—ho must,” said Mrs. Fortescue. “ He looks cl*>ver; he must have a good memory with such an intellectual face. I shall introduce you at our fciffen—-there is no time now. Norman is ready to start.” ' A few minutes later hud the whole cavalcade are away and far out of sight, and a few hours later Mr. large buggy, followed by* a, smaller : one, is being slowly driven up a steep grassy hill to the highest point of observation, “ the Rocks,” where they cao see a good portion of the day’s proceedings. Mrs. Fortescue, with Tier usually kind nature, has insisted on Lord Verrekr driving Vera and taking the groom with them in the largo buggy, or mail phaeton W really is, she herself choosing Mri BeamUli for her escort in the. smaller conveyance.' “ Are none of the children coming ?” said Vera, as she comes into the hall and sees Ernie with a torious face and'solemn eyes standing near the ponies. ' ’ ? “ I am always so nervous about snakes atthe Bocfep^’” said Connie. “ Ob,, let Ernie and Dicky coind—do,” said Vera. “ Twill take card'of them.” Oonnic hesitated for a moment. “ Ho that hesitates is lost,” said Ernie, who is watching his mother; “Yes, but it doesn’t say anything aboutshointho case.” “There* jump in, both' of yqii,” said Vera; “ John will npt want the whole scat—it is suoh a wide one,” and to the boys delight<- their -mother never said no. Vera has never seen a muster before, and looks awfully terror-stricken when Lord Vereker' pulls up udder a shady clump- of pine trees, and a small herd' of cattle, with formidable horns, comes soampdring up close. to* the carriage, nothing daunted to have a good, look at the visitors. • „?.'??? “Theso nrd porfeotly’ quiofc, Vera,” says ’Connie, from her buggy;“they are the home cattle, as quiet os sheep.”* “One might just ris vyell be tossed to death os did of fright,” says My. ‘ Beam ish, “Now* just watch ‘hem Aiiht Vera, and please hold the reins"tight* sir, ” (to Lord Yirc'kor),; '“id Ernie, sounding a policeman’s rattle,, at full' speed, thp skegging noise of which the cattle flying inwall directions, tails io the dir, into the vast depths of the'forest not for. aWay,ito tho relief of' more chan one of tbe bpeotators, ’ ' / “ Ernie ? “WJj.it a boy you; are.! Whore; did-you. get . that d roadfully poisy thing ?” '“Bravo 1 ” said Lord Vorekor, “ What a-simple idea, and how .it' completely put

to tHe rout thosoterocious looking animals. Lot me assist you, Mis. Anbelaye; it is a very high jump.” ,, They , have chosen a beautiful site, amongst several highbouldors, in averi table picnic spot as if made fqr the occasion, and overlooking the whole valley. v John,'the old groom, is trying to ;ex piatn- all the manoeuvred discernible,' to Ernie and Dicky, who forthwith retails .the. information to the 'company,;;wbo, with: field glasses, "are all attention, though ns .the wooded pfrt Of the poind ramaipartially shuts, out the view, they find it rather difficult to understand sundry movementsof the horsefneh in the valley, and to make it more, intelligible to the reader, I will explain what Hhe Seringa master was. About one of the pleasantest and most exciting events in the bush. life of a genuine squatter is ‘that Of a musfcer., It has all the excite?, roontof a soldier going to the wars, but without the misgivings, the fear of defeat and the dread of death, for, valiant a toldier may be, he , cannot put aside ‘the thought that death must stare him in the face, and if he is ready, well and good ; if ho is tot^—well—-I am not going to inflict a homily on my readers —so for the muster at Serioga, where all arrangements had been made. : The neighbors, with their stockmen, had all arrived, and the night had been passed with pleasant conversation, jests, 'yarns, songs, eta, and then all had turned in for the night, but only for a time, and to note, soon after at early morn the. soul stirring sounds of the magpies and the side-splitting merriment of r the laughing jackasses. The boys had been off to the paddocks whilst breakfast was . being prepared, after which pipes bad been lighted, stock whips, examined, fresh lashes put on, for there is great art in handling an Aus tralian stockwhip.. The handle is very short and the whip very long,:: ranging to thirteen feet in length, which, when skilfully cracked, sounds like the report of a gun. 'Horses have been saddled, their riders have,'’ as usual, waited for in structions. Breaking np into the appointed parties, each led by a stockman, thoroughly ac quainted with the.tun- and the different cattle camps. It was Norman Fortescue’s intention only to muster ono side, of the “ run ” at a time. The . outlying . bound aries of the run were to be reached, and then at the sound Of the stockwhips resounding. through forest, over hill .and plain, jthe cattle would madly rush to their different, camps; thenco the stock man would drive them ,~to she central and head camp, where towards noon some two thousand bead or more Would gather! ..After an hour’s rest to mind, the cattle and enjoy a smoke, orders Would be given to start the herd' for home. The cattle would be loth to leave their camp, audit would take much galloping after refractory beasts before the herd would be induced to leave its favorite rendez vous. : At last a few cattle would lead off, and soon the whole,, herd follow; stockmen ahead and stockmen, in flank would guide the lowing kine in the right j direction, others bringing up the rear to urge on the calves and other younger cattle. : Clouds of dust generally rose up os the moss of heavily breathing animals stretched out in a lobgjipe, os they head for the stockyard. Sometimes a cow with her young jalf would try and break away; 'a young bull would"dash from the’ mob, while, nqw and then old t warriors would try and baffle' their pursuers by a side swerve; only to be headed back by the skill and dexterity of the' stockmen. Many an exciting chase does a: muster entail. ' ' - “ Hero they, come, whole troops on ’em, just along the valley yonder, Master Dick. Ye can see the dust a-flying. My eyed-there is one fellow off; sdrvo Him right, i lb is, the old dunderheaded foot as can’t ride a bit, I told him this morning he ought.to be at home with his mother, for all ho knew about horse back,"saidold John. “Who is he, JohnT said Ernie. “Never saw him afore, man. I think be most have come .over from the ranges. It’ll do him good—he’s on again-—and X sec the master’s o-riding up to him, thoughho don’t,want no pity; not ho,” soid the old groom in, contemptuous torus, “I don’t think we need- wait for them,” said Mrs. Fortescue, ns she 'and her boys laid out the lunch on a mossy bank under some trees near, the groom i busy drawing corks, and laying down the carriage cushions for seats. “There’s a carriage coming up the hill, Connie,” said Mrs. Annolqyo, who, i withLord Verekor, had been looking on at the muster. ? ? “I wonder who it is. They will just bo in time iqr lunch,’’ ,.sa ; d- Mrs. ForteVoue, still busy with her arranger ,ment«, when Lin vehicle came in sight, ' but empty, the occupants following soon after, ' “/Wo 1 have been to the house, and they told as you were here, so we wore not going'to be done out of a sight of your bonnio Self,, M'rs! f .' Fortescue, ,so „we fol lowed here, a siiffish hill for! the bodies; but we oil walked up,-' All ! 1' see my party stole a. march updo me;, though .you couldn’t have been here, long,” said Mr. Wilson, throwing the reins to his groom as be dismounted and joined; the party. , ' “ So glad you-aro in time,” said Mrs. Fortescue, introducing the visitors. “ We are hbt going to wait for anyone. 1 know they object to shoyt .up, dusty, as they generally are before this." “ I brought you six emu eggs and a skin;” said Mr. Wilson, to. Mrs. Aqne layo, “towards your colled ion you arc going to take houicv I got the eggs in the sand bills yesterday—ton of thorn— andcas I was going foythor ,1 lefi them in one of the shepherd’s huts till my return hang it-r-when fcqraebaok if the fellow hadn’t eaten half of them." “ Ho evidently thought, like Mark Twain; fchaJ» tho animal had laid his eggs on. the table ready for your shepherd’s breakfast,” said Mr. Beamish. “ What A very greedy- shepherd,” said Mrs, Fortescue., “ Now I quite beliovoin Dr. Barton’s story he told us last week; ‘ He said he had been sent for to some station where a shepherds was dying in agony, os they* thought,, from; having eaten something indigestible or-poisohons; It puzzled the doctor which,'and tlio man was ; too ’ill to speak or give, an account of 1 -Iriim self.?! However, when' be could. spcak, ho muttered savagely that ho hadn’t taken ‘ nothin’!’ to hurt him, In foot he hadn’t oaten anything except ton emu eggs,' which confession-relieved the little doctors mind at once,” • i (to be continued.)